


The Afterparty

by Emby_M



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: After the Gilded Cage, Aftercare, Bondage, Bronte is attracted to Dutch, Dutch and Hosea are Switches, Fingerfucking, Hand & Finger Kink, Hosea thinks a lot, Light Dom/sub, Love Bites, M/M, Married Couple, Multiple Orgasms, Orgasm Delay, Porn with Feelings, Riding, Riding Crops, Stockings, they're in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-28
Updated: 2019-03-28
Packaged: 2019-12-25 20:21:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18268685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emby_M/pseuds/Emby_M
Summary: It's sort of pretty. The kind of debauchery he'd always wanted to drag Dutch into, when they were younger men, near twenty-five years ago.He pulls the ribbon from his breast pocket, the deep blue silk one that Dutch had found at the tailor's and murmured low in his ear, "take this one, to match your tie." Gently ties it around Dutch's wrists, looping it lovingly and pulling it firm and snug.-Dutch and Hosea enjoy each other after the Mayor's party.





	The Afterparty

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tacituskilgore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tacituskilgore/gifts).



Hosea kneels behind him, carefully ties his bowtie around Dutch's eyes.

"There," he says, softly, "Alright, dear?"

"It's fine," Dutch says. He rolls out his shoulders, chuckling lowly.

It's sort of pretty. The kind of debauchery he'd always wanted to drag Dutch into, when they were younger men, near twenty-five years ago.

He pulls the ribbon from his breast pocket, the deep blue silk one that Dutch had found at the tailor's and murmured low in his ear, "take this one, to match your tie." Gently ties it around Dutch's wrists, looping it lovingly and pulling it firm and snug.

It's a little bit of a farce. If Dutch really wanted, he could easily tear apart that ribbon, easily grab whatever of Hosea he wanted to grab -- but he doesn't. They both know if Hosea asked, Dutch would just lace his fingers together behind his back, wouldn't touch until Hosea told him he could.

"How about that?" he murmurs. He likes the way Dutch's thick arms fill out his shirt, the material straining with Dutch's sweet contortion, the throat and the swath of hair he gets from Dutch's open shirt-front.

"That's fine," he replies, voice softer now.

Hosea smiles. The way his voice changed, warbled, deepened -- it was all starting to get to him.

He liked getting to Dutch.

Liked just... playing with Dutch a little. Playing the tease, holding back -- his stamina had always been better, always been able to tamp down that feeling of arousal, the white-hot feeling in his stomach when he thought about Dutch holding him so steady with those big hands, relentlessly rutting into him. It simmered in him, subtle and powerful. There were days when that feeling settled low the whole day and no one was ever the wiser.

He likes to be subtle.

He steps away, taking off his jacket casually. Like there wasn't a tower of a man knelt silent and eager just a few steps away. Like Dutch Van der Linde, a man with a cult of personality the size of this great nation, wasn't waiting for him, patiently, eagerly.

It had the promise of undoing anyone else. It had undone some of the women Dutch wooed -- it had undone Molly, who felt in her very soul the power of being loved and wanted by Dutch, by that force of will.

But he himself, Hosea thinks, is a different case.

"Hosea?" Dutch calls, trying to hide the tense little warble in his voice, "You're still there?"

That vulnerability. It was no one else's. Dutch trusted him enough to lose sight, lose time, lose his hands. Dutch's two watches are abandoned, carefully laid out on top of his meticulously folded waistcoat. He doesn't need to count time now.

"Of course I am, schatje," he says, softly, liking the way Dutch perks at his mother tongue, the tentative smile.

"Your pronunciation's getting so nice," he purrs, and Hosea leans a little into his role.

"Hmph," he sighs, "I'm still mad at you."

"Over what?" Dutch complains. He knows the game they're playing, the steps they take.

"You couldn't be bothered to spend any time with me, at the first party we've had in nearly three decades-" he says, walking around his husband, who turns to face the sound of his voice, "And yet for some reason I find you and Angelo Bronte locking lips."

"He kissed me," Dutch says, "It meant nothing."

"No, I should hope not."

Hosea drags his fingers along the ridge of Dutch's jaw. Smiles when the man follows the movement.

"Nasty little man. Getting up on my schatje, my jackdaw," he murmurs. Dutch swallows.

Hosea lets go of him, trailing away. Fishes into a bag he's stowed here earlier in the day.

"I wanted to be the one doing that," Hosea explains, voice soft. "I wanted to pull you somewhere by that charming bowtie, muss your curls -- muss them the way you wore them when we were younger, all loose and romantic. Wanted to pull you down over me, so whoever'd find us would only see your back -- might not even think there was someone else there."

Dutch laughs, low and throaty.

He slides the crop, brand-new, out from the bag, admires it in the low light. It's a well made thing, hard leather with a suede tab on the end. He flicks it against his own hand experimentally. It won't hurt, just smart.

Dutch straightens. "What have you got...?"

"You'll find out," he says, slowly meandering over to his husband. "I wanted you so badly tonight, I think even Bill could see it -- think everyone I talked to tonight saw that I was yours, that you were mine..."

He drags his hand across the broad span of Dutch's back.

"Are you mine, Dutch?" He says quietly.

"Of course I am," he breathes, and it is true.

"Are you mine," he says, again, quieter.

Hosea steps around the curved form of his husband. Insinuates his thigh against Dutch's broad shoulder. Curls his fingers into the swept-back locks at his husband's temple.

Dutch swallows. This closeness, his face beside Hosea's thigh -- Hosea knows his vision is swirling with all those calm, night-on-the-sea-shore colors he's whispered about lovingly, all those soft and pretty words about how _your voice feels like a gentle snowfall_ , spoken quietly into the hollow of his neck as he pressed Hosea down into their shared bed.

"Of course," he says quietly.

"No one else's?"

"No," he murmurs, resting his forehead on Hosea's hip. "No one else's."

"You won't find someone in our next job? Woo them so devilishly, take them home, oust me from our bed?"

"No," he whimpers, "No, I've never replaced you in that bed. You know that, Hosea -- I can't sleep without you there."

"But you might, my clever jackdaw, if you find someone better than an old man like me."

It's not a real concern, not really -- but it's always been something that drifts in the back of his mind, in moments apart, when Molly is spinning under his husband's arm and laughing like sweet little sleigh bells. That these eyes for others were simply a symptom of something greater -- something that would weigh like lead in his stomach if Hosea had given his life to a man who was never _his_.

"I wouldn't," Dutch says, sincere. If his hands were unbound, he would be clutching the material of Hosea's pantleg, murmuring these words up against his hipbone.

"No one knows the future," Hosea says.

He isn't -- wasn't -- worried about Molly. In some way, he pitied her -- how Dutch was the first good thing to happen to her in America, how that first night they spent together had no doubt set an expectation (and Hosea was sure that he had pleased her the way he pleases Hosea -- slowly and teasingly and yet so fierce; everything he'd learned about sex came from Susan Grimshaw and himself, and it showed so plainly.)

But there was a fear, that someone like Annabelle, dearest Anja, would come along again, and this time Dutch would be taken with her in every way, and she would not be sapphic this time, and they would fall together like puzzle pieces. That he would have someone who he did not have to fret by the bedside of, someone who would not, inevitably, die before him.

"Please Hosea," Dutch murmurs, voice low and strained, "Believe me."

This wasn't part of their playing. This was a man who had panicked the first time he took Mass, weighed by the weight of mortal sin and condemnation and the ever-persisting _why_ , taking confessional into his hip.

"I do, love, I do," he says, combing his fingers into those beautiful curls, relishing the intake of breath.

But of course he does. There was no one else in the world who wore that simple band Dutch had given him at Clemens Point, there was no one else in the world who had been looked at that way, the way Dutch looked at him when he had laughed, his trousers rolled up to his knees and the lake water swirling around his ankles, cool and clean. No one had been smiled at the way Hosea was when he slipped the ring onto his finger easy, like it was always meant to be there.

Hosea pulls his hand away from Dutch's curls, scratching one last time on his nape, a soft moan escaping Dutch's lips.

"Why are you stopping?" Dutch says, voice low, "I was getting all relaxed."

"Patience, patience."

He slips the crop into his right hand and dangles it, just loose, the tress falling just against the small of Dutch's back, right above his bound hands.

"All in time, dearest," he says, returning his hand to Dutch's curls, enfolding him into his hip.

"Is that- a crop?" Dutch whispers, voice hoarse and edging somewhere between delight and despair.

"Mmmhm," Hosea hums, the plane of Dutch's cheek flat against his pelvis. "Do you want it?"

He... laughs, a little. Then, something he would never say to anyone else - "I don't know."

"Hmm," he says, burying his fingers deeper, gripping just a little so that Dutch feels the pressure against his scalp, not enough to hurt but just enough to hold.

Not that he'll be going anywhere.

He sways the crop a little, just tapping, just bumping. Dutch's breath goes a little funny.

"I'm not gonna hurt you with it," Hosea says, very softly, "I don't want to."

"I know- you won't," he says.

"I can take it away. You tell me."

"I-" he laughs, breathless, nuzzling his face into Hosea's pantleg, "I don't know."

"Do you want to try it, though?"

He screws up his brows, visible even for the blindfold, and laughs again. "I don't knooow, Hosea."

He tightens his grip a little more in Dutch's hair. The shuddering breath he lets out is entrancing.

"For me, Achilles," he says, firm.

Dutch says nothing, just lets out a soft, shuddering breath.

"You're Achilles," Dutch says, hoarsely, after a moment.

"Hardly," he replies, scratching again at his nape, a little firmer now, with a little scrape of nails.

"Don't-" he moans, shivering, but there's no intent behind it. Still, Hosea cards his fingers there instead, worrying the divot of Dutch's skull with his ring finger.

"Achilles was the younger and handsomer of the two," Hosea continues.

He swings the crop lightly, likes the bright _swip!_ of the suede against the crisp linen, likes the shiver that he can feel in the base of Dutch's skull. He likes the hitch of breath against his hip, too.

"How is that?"

"Weird," Dutch says. Tender color dusts his cheek, visible in the bright light of the full moon.

"It didn't hurt, did it?"

"No," he smiles, "just strange. I'm not delicate, Patroclus."

"I know, dear," he says, and flicks the crop again -- _swap!_ \-- earning a bigger shiver, "You've taken everything else I've given you."

Dutch's laugh is funny, low and lewd, "Oh, you know I have, baby."

_Swap!_

Hosea whips along the curve of Dutch's ass, and the soft moan it earns is... tantalizing.

"You sure have," Hosea murmurs, "You have again and again -- everything I give you, you take."

Dutch has taken his lip between his teeth now, can hear it in the way he sucks breath.

"Tell me what you need from me," he murmurs, sliding the tab of the crop up Dutch's spine. "Tell me you love me, Achilles."

"I... love you," he murmurs.

The pause, Hosea knows, is not hesitance, but overstimulation.

Hosea scratches at the bare spot of skin behind Dutch's ear, forcing a moan from his lips and his neck to go slack.

"Please," he whispers.

"Please what, dear?"

"Please keep doing that to my hair," he moans, "I love you."

"Mmhm," he hums, flicking the crop again, earning a choked gasp. "Tell me more?"

"I- I love... all of you, sweetheart, I can't pick-"

"Tell me," he says, softly.

Dutch swallows, presses his forehead up against Hosea's hip. He's sweating a little, now.

"Your... hands," he manages.

"My hands?" Hosea says.

"Your hands -- I love your hands. They're finely built -- like little mechanical wonders. So lithe and lean and so gentle and so, so cruel," he laughs, "I can feel them when we're apart, you know that?"

"Is that so," he murmurs. Even here, even with him in control, the low, husky way Dutch speaks riles something in Hosea. It was a good matching, the two of them, always playing off each other.

"It is so," He murmurs, pressing kisses to Hosea's hipbone, "It's _very_ so. I'm thinking about your hands all the time -- across my cheeks, my jaw, in my hair -- along my shoulders, my back, that lovely way you touch my ankle when I leave on de Graaf," Dutch pauses, smirks, "Other places."

That simply won't do -- that coyness.

_Swip!_

Dutch's breath shudders.

"Other places?" Hosea leads.

"Other places."

He sways his hips away from Dutch, pretending like he'll leave entirely, but Dutch chases him down- "No, wait, sorry-"

"I'm here, Patroclus," he says, insinuating his thigh once again, "I'm here."

The sigh Dutch lets out is almost pitiable, something that almost sounds like a sob.

"I think about your hands -- those damn hands -- swiping along my collarbone, down the curve of my chest -- the way you love to trace my stomach--"

Hosea laughs gently, reminded of all the times his joy turned physical, all the times he was so _delighted_ at having Dutch growing older, softer, beside him.

"I think about what your hands do, the gentle way you work me open," Dutch swallows, voice hoarse. "How devastating it is to be touched by you -- have those slim fingers slipping up and down my cock-"

"Mmhm," Hosea says. Dutch presses a few more kisses to his hip.

"I think about you all the time. I think about the curve of your cheek in the low moonlight -- I want to see you right now, I didn't get enough of you at the party -- too many thoughts there, not enough time to study you -- I wish there had been dancing, would've dragged you out there in front of everyone and made a spectacle-"

_Swap!_

Dutch's voice hitches - "I think about you, your lithe body, your skin so pale it could be  _ivory_ \- I think about marking your skin nearly constantly, making it all bloom into those beautiful flowering bruises you love so much. Showing everyone -- _see him? He's mine_."

Hosea giggles, presses the backs of his fingers to Dutch's lips. "More."

"I love," he says, "you, Hosea. I love you so much. I can't think of anything else I've ever loved as much as I do you."

Quietly, Hosea steps out of his shoes. Flings them across the room where they land with a dull thump.

"What was...?"

"My shoes," Hosea says, slipping his fingers against Dutch's lips. "You're so sweet, I figured you should be rewarded."

"Oh," Dutch chuckles.

"Take my fingers, sweetheart." Part of the play, Hosea's voice drops low, breathy, whispery.

That shiver goes down Dutch's spine again. But he doesn't quite move to get them.

"Are you worried?" Hosea says, softly.

"Not worried," Dutch says, voice wrecked, "But I was... I can't think of... anyone else I'd let do this. No one but you could take my sight, my hands, and my voice -- but I'd give it and more to you. Give it over like you were my god."

Hosea smiles. Swipes his hand through Dutch's hair. Nothing could express it better.

It is so funny, sometimes, how honest Dutch could be. Something about the safety and satiety of their play made him more truthful, more vulnerable.

"So sweet," Hosea coos, flicking the crop once more against the curve of Dutch's ass.

"It's true," Dutch whines, but he falls silent when Hosea's fingers touch his lip again.

"I know it is, schatje," Hosea says, "Why don't you show me your worship?"

Dutch stills a moment before grinning and taking the two fingers into his mouth.

His mouth -- oh, volumes upon volumes could be said about his mouth -- the expressiveness, the words that fall from it like stars from the sky -- but the main thing was how tricky it could be, sucking and licking like this. It was the sort of skill that was innate, although certainly had been trained by both himself and Susan.

Another man -- Bronte, maybe, despicable Bronte -- would collapse at the sort of lewd ways Dutch's broad tongue sways and swipes at his fingers. Hosea entertains the idea -- Angelo gone boneless and blabbering at the kind of rogueish things Dutch managed to do with his tongue.

Hosea wonders idly, also, about how good he must be at eating someone out. Dutch was good at oral -- Hosea had no pretenses about the way he loved the tightness of Dutch's throat, the broad, strong tongue nudging at tight muscles until they yielded -- but he wonders about what he'd never experience. How that tongue might tease and tender between slick folds.

Still. This? This was good.

Dutch lets the fingers scrape against his teeth before coaxing them forward, caressing their pads and then sucking free the loose spit. It's neat, elegant and yet-

"Isn't that lovely," Hosea breathes, hand gripping the crop a little tighter.

He flicks it one final time, a little harder than the others. It cracks against the firm material of Dutch's trousers, and that moan -- that moan.

"You're so beautiful, Dutch," he murmurs, sincerely. Lost in the way Dutch delves his tongue in between the fingers, a brutish color staining his cheeks. "So beautiful."

Dutch hums, and it's electric against his fingertips, warm and buzzing.

Hosea tosses the crop to land by his shoes and rakes his hands deep into Dutch's curls, earning a long groan that stops short when he grips tight, canting Dutch's head.

"You're mine," Hosea whispers. "Let me reward you, schatje."

He presses a stockinged foot against the swell in Dutch's trousers and Dutch nearly chokes.

"Please," he whimpers, fingers still in his mouth.

"Take my fingers," Hosea says, pressing his fingers against that warm tongue, ball of his foot grinding along what he can feel of Dutch's shaft.

Dutch moans. It's such a spectacle. Dutch's head canted back, arms straining the well-fit linen shirt, Hosea's hand gripped in those thick dark curls and his other hand in that full, plush mouth.

Another person might just keel over dead having this kind of power. Its intensity.

"What are you thinking about?" Hosea murmurs.

The answer was always going to be interesting with Dutch. It could be as easy as how they need to get more of the lotion that helped with Hosea's creaking bones - or it could be something as complex as the weight of morality versus mortality, about the sin of self-slaughter.

"You," he says.

Simple, then.

"What about me, Achilles?"

"I'm thinking about your cock in my mouth," he growls, low and lewd around those fingers.

Hosea laughs, quietly. "You are, hm?"

"Mmhm," he hums as he sucks wetly on the digits. Closes that mouth around the fingers, swirling his tongue around and then, even more lewdly, through them, splitting them and worrying the tip of his tongue against the second knuckles.

Dutch was very good at being on his knees like this.

Hosea angles his foot, grinding his heel down on the growing bump in Dutch's trouser-front. The long inhale he gets in response is quite pretty, so he grinds more, fists his hand a little tighter, pulling those inky curls away from Dutch's ear.

Dutch's sharp brows knit, and the moan he gets would have made a younger Hosea orgasm then and there.

"I want to please you," Dutch says, leaning forward again, letting Hosea's fingers dangle from his lips, rest against his reddened bottom lip, "Make sure you know how much I love you, Patroclus."

Hosea laughs again, drags the top of his foot against Dutch before settling down.

"You're doing it, Dutch," he murmurs, rubbing his heel against that nice jut of cloth. "I would hope I know, though. We're married, after all."

Dutch smiles, takes the fingers back into his mouth -- the ring finger too. He takes them all down to the bottom knuckle, that broad, flat tongue caressing and finding that ring.

Well.

That's one hell of an idea.

Dutch hums in approval when he hears the quick breath Hosea pulls in.

"That's lovely," Hosea coos, stroking his hand through Dutch's hair.

Hosea grinds his foot more, leaning some of his weight into it.

Dutch is getting sloppy. Licks and sucks and swirls wetly, now unconcerned with prettiness or picturesqueness, breath coming deep and heavy as Hosea fondles him.

"Are you close?" he murmurs, and Dutch nods. "Don't come just yet. I'll tell you when."

Another low moan works its way from Dutch's throat, unbidden as he takes the fingers down to the knuckles once, twice, three times more.

The blind, wanting way Dutch shifts his hips against the foot is entrancing.

Hosea wonders what it would have been like to have Dutch when they were younger -- if this push-pull would have been so defined. What would it have been like if that Hosea -- brasher, more impulsive, so much less sure and yet so much more cocky -- had this Dutch, this one who trusted and who needed and who was rutting against his leg like an animal, sucking down his fingers. That man would have already come by now. Nothing like this Hosea, who strains his trousers the same way Dutch does but doesn't need to rut, content to just let that intense want-need-desire-heat-pain-pleasure settle low and _simmer_.

Hosea cards his fingers through Dutch's hair. The man's scalp was so sensitive -- no, all of Dutch was sensitive, if you touched him enough. And that was something for another time -- to lay Dutch out in their bed, run fingers and lips over Dutch's skin until he was overstimulated to hell, until he was buzzing with need and want and finds no relief in orgasm, only relief in curling up in Hosea's embrace and being caressed gently.

Dutch's breath hitches, quiet and certain. He's forcing his hips to still but it's not working -- Hosea sees it in the way he shudders down, trembling and making sweet little sounds around Hosea's fingers.

"You're beautiful," Hosea says, "Real beautiful."

Dutch whines, hips bucking before he can lock them still.

"Please," he mumbles, his tongue darting out to clean that silver band again.

Hosea laughs, quietly. "Alright. Since you're so sweet."

"Say it," Dutch says, "Please. I need to hear you say it-"

"Come for me, dear."

Dutch ruts once- twice against his leg, biting down on the fingers hard enough to smart but not hard enough to break skin. He trembles and trembles and trembles down off of it, until all that's left is Dutch panting, and a lot of spit on Hosea's fingers.

"Sorry," Dutch says quietly, after a moment, blindly nuzzling into where he thinks Hosea's hand is. He kisses the hand gently.

"It's alright," Hosea says, untying the blindfold, freeing his hand from the curls.

When his tie comes off, the look Dutch gives him sings.

It's a little red around the edges, a little exhausted, but trusting. There was nothing better than Dutch trusting him.

"Hello there," he grins, and the responding grin he gets from Dutch is lovely.

He untangles himself from the curve of his shoulder, walking a little funny to shift the stiffness in his trousers.

"You're so good," Hosea murmurs, kneeling to untie Dutch's hands. He knows from experience the moment those hands are freed, Dutch will grab at him, won't let go unless pressed. And Hosea has other things in mind before Dutch pins him to the floor and uses those hands against him. "You did so well, sweetheart."

This was the secret, of course -- Hosea thinks, as he undoes the knot but doesn't unlace it from around Dutch's wrists -- he was just as in love with Dutch as Dutch was with him. It's what made this whole thing work so well.

Hosea pads over to his bag, nestled in the nook of a fine bay window, fishing around for the smooth tin of salve. It was in here, certainly.

He hears the murmur of cloth, Dutch's breathless laughter. His ears prick at the sound, an almost bashful thing.

And then the sound of ribbon, zipping along his hands.

More cloth -- that nice suit, abandoned on the floor of this hotel room.

And then Dutch comes up behind him, pressing his knee between his legs.

"Well, hello there," Hosea murmurs, eyeing the courtyard below, where a couple last revelers linger. If they looked up, they could see Hosea, Dutch's face pressed into his neck. They could see Dutch Van der Linde, now nude as a fine Grecian statue, holding his husband sweetly. They could see Dutch's eager, agile hands undoing his buttons, prying the clothes off his shoulders as he chides Dutch -- "I'm trying to get something, here-"

"I love you," Dutch whispers, his hands skimming the divots of Hosea's ribs, fingers teasing and taunting.

Hosea giggles, presses back against that full thigh, relishes the way his lover bites carefully at the nape of his neck, open and wanton.

"I didn't take you for an exhibitionist," Hosea murmurs, lowly. Dutch's smooth cheek meets his, and they kiss over his now-bare shoulder.

"I'm not," he murmurs, voice low and bare and wrecked, "But I could be, for you."

Hosea chuckles. "A nice idea," he says, kissing Dutch slowly, languorously. Turning around and wrapping his arms around Dutch's broad shoulders. "Show the world what a good lover you are."

"No," Dutch mumbles, pressing lazy kisses to Hosea's cheeks and jaw, "No, I'd want them to see you, stretched out long and slim and looking like the goddamn king you are- I'd want 'em to see you, moaning and rapt, and I'd want them to know that only I do this to you. That only I _can_ do this to you. That I'm the only one you let into your bed."

"Or the only one who climbs into your bed," Hosea chuckles, pressing a kiss to the corner of Dutch's mouth, "As it is."

Whatever character Dutch had going slips, and he smiles wide. It's a real, honest smile, and so sweet. Hosea has to smile too, pepper a couple more kisses along Dutch's lips. They giggle together as he undoes the fly of Hosea's trousers. He's a little messy, his soft cock hanging along his thigh, his spend smeared along his skin, but it's awfully pretty.

Dutch slides his thighs between Hosea's legs, once the trousers are off. The hair there, on the outside of his legs -- somewhere between wiry and silky -- slides along the sensitive skin of Hosea's inner thighs. Hosea gasps, quietly.

"Feels good, schatje?" Dutch teases, his fingertips tracing the fine border of muscle on the inside of Hosea's thigh. A little moan escapes Hosea's lips, and he slips his hand into Dutch's, the one that isn't tracing lines, shivering with the sensation, watching the way Dutch's smile twitches delightedly.

And then, he lifts a leg and presses Dutch away with his still-stockinged foot.

"Just because you're untied, doesn't mean you can neglect your devotion," he taunts, a little less firm and a little more dazed than he'd like. But he likes this image -- himself leading, the two of them so nude, except for Hosea's stockings. They're ladies' stockings, fine ivory silk, just barely paler than his hips. They're held up with ribbon garters, and they're a little particularity he had picked up so so many years ago and had never cared to ditch.

"Oh," Dutch sighs, voice trembling a little. Hosea doesn't miss the flush, the little stir between Dutch's thick thighs. "What do you want me to do?"

Hosea giggles, sits up and extends his arms out. It's a signal they both use, very simple -- _hold me_. Except this one, with his back stretched long, with him refusing to get up -- this one means _carry me._

Dutch smiles and bends, carefully letting Hosea arrange his limbs in the way he wants -- arms around Dutch's neck, legs draped over an arm: a bridal carry.

"Really?" Dutch says, smirking.

"Indeed, indeed," Hosea replies, and Dutch lifts him easily, spinning a little with him. It's such a giddy feeling, the air in his lungs suddenly thin, like he swallowed soda water too fast. "We are newlyweds, sweetheart."

"I forgot," Dutch says, leaning down and pressing a gentle kiss to Hosea's cheek.

"Did you really?" Hosea asks, batting the back of Dutch's neck. "It was only back at Clemens Point."

"Mm, yes and no." Dutch spins, swaying to an unheard waltz. "I don't remember a time we weren't married, if I'm being honest."

"Such a romantic," Hosea giggles, rolling his eyes.

"Only for you."

"Psh, I know that isn't true!" he laughs, pressing a kiss to Dutch's cheek, "You're the most romantic man I know. Maybe excluding Javier."

"Saying another man's name, when we're like this?" Dutch pouts, overdramatic, "You're so cruel."

Hosea bursts into giggles, whapping at Dutch's chest and tucking his face into the other man's neck.

"My own husband!" Dutch continues, acting like he was in a melodrama, clutching at Hosea like they were the Pieta, "Swayed by the allure of our subordinate! Infidelity! Scandal! Adultery!"

"Shut up, you big fool," Hosea giggles, pressing his lips to Dutch's.

Loves the way he leans into the kiss. Loves the way he pulls Hosea closer, nips at his lower lip and murmurs softly, "I'm yours, completely."

"You are. And I'm yours, wholly," he murmurs, curling his fingers into Dutch's nape.

Dutch sighs so sweet.

They kiss, slowly and easily. That raw lust has faded a little, but there was still this thrum in Hosea's lower stomach, knowing that there was more coming.

"Hey," he murmurs, and Dutch presses another kiss to his lips, 'hey- Dutch," another kiss, and more giggles, "Hey, look at me- look at me."

Dutch finally moves back, looking at his husband like there was nothing else in the world but him.

"Want to work me open?" Hosea says, nuzzling their noses together.

Dutch chuckles quietly, and kneels on the plush carpet, letting Hosea down gently.

"Stay there."

He watches with interest as Dutch takes a few pillows from the settee in the corner -- a couple from the bed -- and the extra blanket that Dutch had harangued the poor maitre d'hotel for ("My companion gets cold at night -- you folks aren't running a business that'd let an old man freeze, are you?")

"Did you get that so we could fuck on it?" Hosea asks, and Dutch's responding laugh is nothing less than a cackle.

"No, you do actually get cold-"

"Not beside you."

"But also so I can do - this, for you."

And Dutch coaxes him up, laying out the pillows in a veritable nest around them -- pillows to prop him up, a pillow for his hips, and that blanket -- fine, soft cotton quilted into these beautiful leaf-shapes -- under his legs.

"So you're comfortable," he says.

Hosea finds that he- is. He's very comfortable. The smile that works its way across his face is involuntary, brought on with the delightful thought: oh, he _really_ loves me.

They kiss, just a little thing, no particular heat under it. And then Hosea's fingers finds Dutch's nape again and very gently- tug.

Dutch's breath hitches, and the game is back on.

"Get the salve for me?" he murmurs against Dutch's lips, "You distracted me earlier. It's in a little tin in my bag -- I bought it new this morning."

Dutch stands again and goes to his bag -- Hosea is struck by how much he loves Dutch's legs, his hips, his ass. Finely muscled and thick, there had been so many times when he led where he'd just worshiped them -- left behind pretty bruises and made Dutch so sensitive he _mewled_.

"Is it this one?" he says, showing it off. "Violet-scented, ah?"

"I thought it'd be a nice change," Hosea says, lounging back along the pillows his husband so kindly set up. "Petroleum jelly always smells funny to me."

"Can't deny that," Dutch says, fa;ling to his knees in front of Hosea, pushing back the curls that were now falling in his face, loose from the styling product.

The swept back hair was part of the Dutch image, but Hosea much prefers these loose curls, falling in pretty tresses around Dutch's square face. It was something that belonged to him, only revealed in the quiet of their bedroom.

He can't help but smile when Dutch pauses, looking up from under his lashes at Hosea.

This was certainly something he was going to draw. He was taking this picture in his mind, the loose way Hosea reclines on the soft pillows, capricious and free -- Hosea had played artist's model to quite the number of young artists back in the day, but Dutch had always been his favorite. It was always raw, and tender, and sweet, the way he drew.

Dutch settles, kneeling between his thighs, coaxing them over his until Hosea was spread open. The pillows prop him up enough to watch the show -- certainly deliberate on Dutch's part.

The last drawing in his notebook -- and Hosea knows this, because Dutch showed him -- was a careful rendering of what someone else might think is a pretty lady. But it was still Hosea. It was their little secret (and Susan's, who had helped) that a lovely fairy queen named Queen Titania had visited Dutch, late one night. It had been a continuation of something quite a long time ago -- Dutch had danced with a Queen Mab nearly twenty-two years ago, and hadn't forgotten it.

Dutch slicks his fingers, spreading them liberally with the salve. The light scent is pleasant -- less clinical, more intimate.

He leans down and kisses Hosea. Gently, at first, but then warmer, hotter, open-mouthed and slanting.

Hosea wraps his arms around his husband's neck -- he loves to, likes the stretch. Sometimes when they embraced, Dutch would lift him up a couple inches, until his toes left the ground.

Funny, how Dutch trusts him. And funny, how he trusts Dutch the same. He trusts Dutch to pick him up and put him somewhere, is content to let him do what he wanted. Earlier in the relationship, maybe not, but even then, Dutch had always been considerate with Hosea.

There was trust, he thinks, as Dutch strokes his still half-hard cock, a moan escaping his throat. There was a lot of trust in all of this -- in their play, in this pillow arrangement, in the way Dutch hadn't gotten up to check his watch even once. A lot of trust.

"Pretty," Dutch says, drifting kisses from his cheeks down to his jaw, down against his throat. "Can I leave a mark?"

"Mm, sure-" he hums. "I'll wear my neckerchief tomorrow."

Hosea closes his eyes. Lets himself feel -- the tongue, then the teeth, the gentle sting of pain when Dutch bites and sucks.

"Ah," he sighs, "That's- nice."

When he pulls back, eyes the new mark, a smile sweeps across Dutch's face. It's rogueish, and pleased, and so tender, all at once. A very very Dutch-like expression.

"Prettier," he growls.

Hosea laughs and presses a kiss under his jaw.

"Come on then, schatje," he murmurs, stroking a hand down Dutch's chest, tracing his breastbone lightly.

The first finger slips in almost too easy -- for one, it had been quite recent that the two of them had made love. Hosea had regular practice -- Dutch was pleasantly proportional, long and thick -- and for the other, Hosea knew the moment he booked the room that this was all going to transpire, so when he'd come up here to stow the bag, he'd taken a few moments just to... play.

"You're so ready for me," Dutch chuckles, their foreheads pressed together.

"I was ready this morning," he murmurs, "Came up here. Stretched myself out on that bed just thinking of you."

Dutch shivers, a loopy grin on his face. "Oh?"

"Mmhm," he sighs, cupping Dutch's jaw, "How shameful. An old man like me stretched himself out on that fancy hotel bed -- fucking myself with my fingers and stroking myself until I came, moaning your name. Lots of folks out there who think I shouldn't even be able to do that at my age."

"Did you really?" Dutch breathes, pressing another finger in after adding more salve. That one feels a little tighter, especially the way Dutch does it, stretching as he tries to push deeper.

"Think about it. There was an hour or so where I wasn't with you at all today, wasn't there?"

"And you were thinking of me that whole hour, huh."

"I was."

"Ain't I special," he murmurs, eyes scintillating. His fingers are pleasantly rough, thrusting in and out firmly but slowly.

Still, his eyes are locked onto Hosea, watching every time Hosea cocks his head, shifts a little, lays his hands back on the pillow or clutches down at the blankets.

"You're- staring," Hosea murmurs, bringing his husband down for another kiss.

"I told you -- didn't get my fill of you earlier."

"Am I that interesting?"

"Of course."

Another finger -- the stretch is noticeable but not painful, certainly not painful.

Dutch is good with rhythm. He'd have to be, with the way he counts and counts - the steady thrum of one-two-three-one-two-three, the counts of twelves, twenty-fours, thirties, sixties. It gives him a particular quality to his movement that has no term or explanation, but just _is_.

And it extends here. Hosea knows that if he bothered to count the shallow thrusts, they would be some multiple of three, he can feel the nice way Dutch presses closer is in three -- like a waltz.

He thinks the waltz must have gotten stuck in his head -- the first dance they ever did together was a waltz, and Dutch had never known social dancing before then, and when he came away from that first go, he would waltz in his and Bessie's home, taking Bess for a turn around the sitting room before shyly extending his hand to Hosea.

It feels very, very good.

On his back like this is good for the stretching, but he wants to lean up, wrap himself around Dutch and kiss him -- kiss his collarbones, his chest, trail kisses down to that ever-softening tummy, kiss his hipbones. Kiss each scar, self-inflicted or otherwise, lave his tongue over them to give pause when Dutch will inevitably try to scratch them open again.

He whines, low, in the back of his throat and opens his arms once more for a proper embrace.

Dutch hooks an arm around his waist, pressing his lips above Hosea's heart.

The fourth finger surprises him a bit.

"Three is- enough," Hosea moans, "I've taken you with two before."

"Sure," Dutch laughs, pressing a kiss to his breastbone, "But what's the rush? We have until tomorrow morning."

"I'm getting impatient-"

"It's worship," he murmurs, up against Hosea's ribs, "I want to make sure you won't ache even a little tomorrow."

Hosea groans, reaching back and grabbing at the pillows. Even though he could, even though he could slip back into their play and grab Dutch's hair roughly and demand -- Dutch isn't a toy to play with. The point of all this wasn't to get exactly what he wanted, exactly when he wants it. The element of surprise and of anticipation was just as important.

And truthfully -- being loved like this was good. Much as he had fun leading Dutch, there was something really wonderful about letting things happen.

The strain of the fourth is nothing he's unaccustomed to, but it definitely does something to him.

"Dutch," he says-sighs-laughs.

"Like _music_ ," he replies, skimming his other hand down Hosea's bare side, down to his thigh, his knee, "Here, put your foot on my thigh."

"Mm," he moans, those four thick fingers so, so nice. The extra stretch of curling his leg only makes it better, more intense.

"The stockings make you look so _obscene_ , sweetheart."

"All for you," Hosea giggles, pressing his calf up alongside Dutch's ribs. "For you and your roving eyes."

"If I'd noticed these-" And Dutch undoes one of the garters, pushes the stocking down below Hosea's knee, presses a kiss to the exposed skin, "I would've pulled you aside and had you there. Forgotten anything else."

"But this is better, isn't it," Hosea murmurs.

"So much better," he agrees, "God, look at you, taking four so easily. You're so ravishing."

Hosea laughs, until Dutch pulls out a few of the fingers -- his grip is a lot better with just two fingers -- and he _presses._

Hosea ruts into his husband's fingers, a long moan of "Dutch" forced from his lips.

"Feel good, darling?" Dutch teases.

There aren't words, now, just this sort of raw, over-sensitive feeling. Hot and overwhelming, he grabs at Dutch's hair -- hard -- and yanks him forward, crushing their mouths together.

Dutch had set a devastating pace, quick and certain, and it's only made worse -- or maybe better -- when Hosea grips at his hair.

They know each other's bodies. Obviously. And Dutch knows exactly where that little bundle of nerves is inside of him, knows it's exactly the depth of his index finger, and knows how fast and how hard to press so that Hosea is gasping- gasping- gasping-

The orgasm pulses outwards, spreading through him, down to his toes -- he thinks he get why the French call this a little death, how overwhelming and sudden it is.

The only word on his lips is Dutch, and Dutch chases him down until he's nearly sobbing.

Dutch just laughs, throaty and bold.

"Get on the bed," he murmurs hoarsely, once the orgasm's settled. He's not even bothering to clean the cum that's splattered his stomach.

"I will, I will," Dutch says, grinning half-rogueish, half-manic, "Gimme a minute, I just wanna clean you."

"I want you now," Hosea whines, but the broad, flat tongue over his stomach shuts him up. "Oh god," he groans.

"Mmhm," Dutch hums, the buzz of his lips almost unbearable.

"Please," he sighs.

"In a minute," Dutch says, but Hosea reaches for him, alights his fingers on Dutch's shoulder like a delicate bird, and says, firm but hazy--

"No, now."

Hosea's skin is so sensitive post-orgasm, that when Dutch picks him up, he moans. Dutch laughs, a manic thing, but with this edge of sweetness.

"You're so pretty, Hosea," Dutch murmurs, pressing kisses to his temple, "How do you want me?"

"On your back," he says.

Dutch grins and sits Hosea on the edge of the bed -- a plush thing, quite big, with soft cottony sheets -- and then lays back himself. He's already hard, and in the quiet glow of a lantern, it's _lewd_ how red the tip of his cock is, beaded already with pre-come, how proudly it stands.

He climbs up over his husband, planting his hands firmly on that ever-softening tummy, and lines himself up with Dutch's cock.

Dutch's murmuring words so quick -- "God, look at you, here in the moonlight, I can't believe we're doing this, I love you-" but he's silent when Hosea sinks, taking him all the way to the base immediately.

A meek little whine forces itself from his throat, but he loves it. Loves this feeling of fullness, satiety -- loves feeling this close to Dutch.

"You really prepped me good, sweetheart," he says, lost a bit in the sensation, eyes still closed, "Never taken all of you this fast."

It's raw, over-sensitive -- to have Dutch, all of his proud glory, all that cock, in him right after an orgasm -- it was too sensitive. Dutch knew it was hardly a slight against him if Hosea wasn't able to go again quite so soon after an orgasm, if he stayed limp, but this was not one of those times. There was too much to turn him back on, to much to rile him once more. When he starts to move, it sends a blind shiver up his nape, a tingling chill out to his fingertips.

"Fuck," Dutch moans, gripping Hosea's hips lightly. Knows he doesn't have to control either, just let things happen. "Fuck, Hosea-"

"Mm," he moans, softly. "I know, I know."

Those big hands travel upwards, cupping the slim expanse of Hosea's ribs. The touch is light, fond -- it makes Hosea smile, has him lean forward and take one of those hands in his.

He presses it to his face, closing his eyes and feeling all the places they touch -- Dutch's big hands, those broad, sweet fingers against his cheek -- dry, he must've wiped them at some point -- the other on his ribs, fingers creeping towards his nipple. Hosea's hands, pressing against his belly, all the places they touch when Hosea sits back on that cock.

"I love you," Dutch says, breath coming ragged.

"I love you too," he replies, turning his face to the hand and kissing it. "Did you know-?"

Dutch gets up onto his elbows, suddenly, brow knitting together -- an almost desperate look. "I need to hold you. Can I hold you?"

Hosea laughs, breathlessly grinding back on his husband, opening his arms. "Come here, schatje-"

Dutch clings to him, face pressed against his collarbone.

Hosea still focuses, hips thrusting, on the hand. "I love your hands too," he says, quietly.

"Do you?" Dutch says, cheek against his shoulder, expression fond -- incredibly fond. Fond that it catches Hosea's breath.

"I do," he says, kissing the heel of the hand, "They're so pretty. Kind, too."

Dutch laughs, moaning a little when Hosea grinds deeper, "They're ugly."

"No they're not," Hosea laughs, pressing kisses all along his palm. "I love them."

Dutch just groans, thrusting up and making Hosea's breath catch in his throat as he kisses his favorite hand.

"I'm-" Dutch groans, and Hosea cups his head, kissing his forehead gently.

They move together, in time. The relentless pace -- the thrum of movement -- is frenetic, clumsy, awkward - but sweet. He touches Dutch's hips when they start really coming unevenly, and they match right back up, the sinuous hip muscles under Hosea's thighs flexing in time with Hosea's grinding.

"Beautiful," Dutch sighs, leaning back and smiling softly up at his husband, a low moan when Hosea sits back particularly far- "Ethereal. Some angel come down to save me."

Hosea laughs, it turning into a whine halfway through, "Too- mm, too sinful to be an angel."

Dutch looks for a moment like he'll respond -- but he doesn't. He just knits his brow, clutches Hosea so close. "I need you."

And then they're silent, that way, except for their quiet noises -- sometimes Dutch was loud, shouting to the world how much he enjoyed his husband, the relentlessness of Hosea's mouth, his insatiable appetite; here, and now, there's just his sweet breath and his arms around Hosea's slim waist.

Hosea presses his cheek against Dutch's shoulder, the raw over-sensitivity of a second orgasm forcing his breath quick and heavy- Dutch holds him steady, grinds up harder until he's pressing again against the bundle of nerves and Hosea is gripping those curls tight and murmuring -- _not yet, not yet, oh, not yet-_  and Dutch is chuckling low in his ear but it's gone funny and he can hear the strain in his husband's voice when he says - "I'm close too-"

"Come first," Hosea moans, the friction and the pressing and the sweet way they touch from knee to neck too much.

Dutch ruts deep, quick, hard- gripping Hosea's ass so tightly there will definitely be bruises in the morning - lifts him off quickly and bucks his hips, biting down on his lip around a heavy moan-

They come together, chest pressed to chest. Hosea's hips stutter, the two of them sharing a gasp, the firm hands gripping his ass, chasing down the last of the orgasm, the second in what could have been no more than ten minutes.

For a long moment, they just breathe. Hosea collapsed boneless, tingling and over-warm, on his husband's chest. Dutch's hands stroking long paths up the skin of Hosea's back.

Hosea presses his forehead against his husband's. Quietly inhales, shares his breath with the man he loves so much.

The last of the revelers go to bed outside the window. The air outside is alive with the whine of cicadas, of crickets, of the sounds of Saint Denis that were unlike any other city-

"I love you," Dutch murmurs, the sound of it vibrating all up and down Hosea's ribs.

"I love you too," he murmurs back.

He settles his hands against the inside of Dutch's elbows. Pushes back against him, laughing, when he sees, at the way they smeared the cum against their stomachs, how they have these matching patches of translucent white streaked up their soft tummies.

A stab of fondness. That they were here, older, happy. They were married -- they had been married for years, since that night where Dutch cornered him and he had, in a burst of impulsiveness, kissed the man, but now they were  _married,_ with  _vows_ and  _rings-_

There was something in the way he could feel his face creasing, feel his skin softening -- of watching gray grow into Dutch's beard, feeling him age-

Contentment.

"I'll clean us up?" Dutch laughs, after a moment.

"Carry me," Hosea whines, the one admission to his childishness, his neediness. Only Dutch could have it.

"I'm not gonna carry you," he murmurs, pressing kisses to Hosea's temple, "Lay back, I've got you."

He rolls over, pouting a little, lingering his fingertips on Dutch's forearms as long as he can.

Watches this man -- his husband -- go over the the little alcove and take the wash basin from there. Clean his own front, carefully.

It's hard to keep his eyes open. It's warm -- comfortable. The world outside is forgotten.

He hears the sound of the watches -- but Dutch's only winding them, not looking, not worrying over the time, where it all fit in. It would resume tomorrow, the timing, but for now it was forgotten.

The washcloth touches his stomach -- Dutch washes him carefully, gently. Leans down as he does and presses soft kisses to his hairline.

"Are you falling asleep?" Dutch asks, softly.

He hums, turning his face towards the sound of his husband's voice. Dutch chuckles.

"Alright, alright, give me a minute."

The sound and feeling of Dutch getting off the bed, going back over to the alcove. Picking up pillows and blanket from the floor. Settling the extra around them.

Dutch finally comes back to bed, presses against Hosea's side, and covers them both.

"Good night," he says, kissing Hosea.

Hosea just hums against his husband's lips.

 

In the morning, Hosea wakes to the smell of coffee.

He opens his eyes, looking to Dutch's side of the bed -- not there.

And then he looks over the the balcony.

There he is.

He's taken a chair out there, and sits, crossed legs and crossed arms, quietly sipping coffee and watching the town.

His hair curls at his nape -- there's a whorl of hair there that Hosea will trace with a fingertip, and no matter how awake he is, Dutch's eyelids will droop. He's broad, and in the morning light his skin is nearly golden, quite charming.

I love him, Hosea thinks, and the thought comes easy and simple.

Dutch notices his movement, sees him there. Smiles.

"Did you wash your hair?" Hosea asks, but it comes out sounding more like "d'you wash'er hair?"

"Yeah," he says quietly, just above the din of the city, just loud enough to be heard.

"Is is dry yet?" he says -- sounds like "s'dryet?"

"Mmhm," Dutch says.

"Come and cuddle," Hosea yawns, his whole body straining in his stretch. "Comncuddle," is more what it turns into.

The cup of coffee comes in with Dutch, but the chair doesn't. Dutch basically steps up into the bed, mindful of the cup of coffee, bends down and kisses Hosea's exposed temple.

"There's coffee, when you want it -- kind of sweet, some French something -- pot's supposed to keep it warm for a while-"

"I want to cuddle," Hosea murmurs, "I'll have some later."

Dutch grins and sets the cup by the bedside, slipping in beside his husband. The warmth is nice -- Dutch's arms are firm and steady, and he nestles Hosea's head against his warm chest, their legs tangling gently. Hosea is nude, Dutch is half-dressed, trousers but no shirt, but it's a nice little contrast -- the wool against his slim, fuzzy legs.

"What time is it?" he murmurs against Dutch's neck.

"Eight, maybe nine," Dutch says, not bothering to fetch either of his watches.

"We're gonna have to get back to camp soon. Someone's gonna worry."

"Let 'em," Dutch chuckles, tracing the shell of Hosea's ear gently, "they can go a day without us."

"Sure. But the hotel will kick us out round noon, probably."

"Let them do that, then - I'll just enjoy my wonderful husband until then."

They kiss, and that's a plan made.

**Author's Note:**

> It took me about a month and a half of on and off writing to write 9000 words about Dutch and Hosea being in love and fuckin.  
> I had an original version where Hosea called Dutch his first name a lot more, but I know sometimes headcanon names can really turn a reader off if it's like, a weird ass name you don't jive with. So it's all Dutch the whole way down.  
> Thank you to tacituskilgore for all his input!  
> Kudos and comments are always appreciated!


End file.
